


Only You

by junsnow



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Post 8x01, Smut, Soft Porn, Vaginal Fingering, like really soft. this is fucking romantic you guys, post-parentage reveal, set in season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: Jon and Sansa have a talk after the battle plans are made. Some things come to the surface.AKASansa wants to feel good. Jon wants to help her.





	Only You

**Author's Note:**

> me? writing two smutty oneshots in less than 24 hours? damn, season 8 is really doing it for me. all that romantic tension has to be good for something, right? well, there you go. hope you like it, as i am quite pleased with this one. enjoy!

Maps and mock army pieces littered the table in the candle-lit room. The meeting was over, and their plans—for better or worse—ready.

Jon tapped one figurine against the wood repeatedly, the tapping sound reflecting the concerns plaguing his mind. Did they have enough men? _Tap_. Was their strategy good enough? _Tap_. Can they protect Winterfell? _Tap._ Can he protect his family? _Tap_. What happens if they win? _Tap_. What happens if they lose?

One way or another _—_ everyone Jon loved might die, if he failed. From ice or from fire, it made no matter. His plans _had_ to work. Win the war against the dead first—then deal with the dragons and the issue of succession. Sam promised to keep quiet about his secret, and keep any political schemes for when they were finally safe from the threat of the Night King. Jon hoped Sansa would do the same. They were too smart for their own good, his best friend and his…his _cousin_.

Jon needed a clear head and a sharp mind. He flexed his sword hand. His head was throbbing, and he wished for some good ale, but he knew that wasn’t a good idea the night before battle. Someone knocked on the door, and the sound seemed to echo inside his skull, making him cringe.

“What is it?” He barked.

A thick head of red hair peeked inside.

“It’s me.” Sansa said before walking in. She looked down at the table, then at him. It reminded Jon of a night not so long ago, not unlike this one, inside a tent, the eve before battle. His pulse quickened at the memory.

“Well?” He asked.

“It’s nothing.” She paused, searching for something to say. “Is everything ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose. You don’t happen to have another surprise army waiting somewhere, do you?” He japed, and her responding laugh sounded hollow to his ears. “I was surprised you weren’t here for the meeting.”

 “You know your enemy this time; I don’t. I wouldn't be of any help.”

Jon frowned. “You had valuable input the last time. I should have listened to you.”

He didn’t know what to make of her responding look, until a slight smile graced the corner of her lips. That was better, he thought. Jon liked her smile; it was a rare, precious thing.

She took a seat next to his chair, and Jon followed. They sat in silence for a while, each second tense and soothing in turns.

Sansa was the one to break it. “You might die tomorrow.”

“Aye.” He agreed.

“I don’t want you to die.” She admitted, and Jon isn’t sure if it’s the candlelight in her eyes or if they’re really watering.

Jon chuckled. “I don’t think we have a say in the matter.”

“You came back before.” Sansa pointed out.

Jon turns to face her again, and her gaze is like a punch to his heart. He nods, trying to be reassuring. “I’ll do my best. I promise.” He means it with fiber of his being. He would do anything she asked, right then, if it meant she wouldn't cry.

She nods in thanks, another gentle smile breaking through the tears that threaten to fall.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking to the ceiling to stop the tears from falling. “I should be stronger than this.”

Her hands were shaking in her lap. Jon grabs one of them. Neither of them are wearing gloves, so he could feel the softness of her palm against the rough skin of his.

“You _are_ ,” he said, in a tone that bears no discussion.

Sansa looks down at their hands curiously, as his thumb circles the back of her hand. “We never talked about—you know. What it means.”

Jon knew she was referring to Bran and Sam’s discovery.

“What is there to say?” He asks, tiredly, removing his hands.

“ _Everything_.” She replies, disbelieving.

Jon sighs. “I know. I’m not a Stark. I never was. I _always_ knew that.” It was true. All his life he wanted to be _Jon Stark_ , and now he was neither.

“Not this again—” she says, irritated, “you _are_ a Stark! A legitimate one, too, since your mother was a Stark and you were born from a legal marriage. Just because your name is Targaryen doesn’t mean you’re not a Stark! You’re _still_  part of the pack.”

“So am I still your brother, then?” he asks.

Sansa hesitates, licking her lips. “Only if you want to be.”

Jon’s heart beats faster at the implication. “Sansa—”

“Listen,” she interrupts. “I know this is strange, and it might just _disgust_ you entirely, but I have to say it, because I don’t know if I'll ever have another chance. I…I don’t feel for you as a sister should.”

_Gods. Did she mean…?_

She looked down, embarrassed, not meeting his eyes. “When you came home with Daenerys…I was jealous. I thought it was obvious.”

Jon’s mouth fell open, but not a single sound came out.

_Sansa. Jealous. Feels for him. Sansa. Not as a sister._

He doesn’t know how long his mind kept going in circles, but suddenly Sansa is pushing back her chair and leaving and—

“Wait!” He rushes after her, catching her by the arm.

Sansa looks at him, lost, cheeks ablaze, searching for something in his face. When she found it, her stance changed, and hope colored her features.

Jon still doesn’t know what to say. He has never been good with words. So he kisses her.

It’s like a dam breaks between them, and suddenly there’s all this feeling, all this emotion—a new world opening before them, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it, even if they wanted to ( _they don’t_ ).

Sansa kisses him back like he is a feast and she's been starving for weeks.  

Things get heated between them before Jon can take notice of it. Her hands scratch at the back of his neck, making him growl in pleasure; their tongues meet, and his hands tighten around her. Soon they are moving, unseeing, to the center of the room, where the table lies.

Jon backs Sansa against the edge of the table, and the need to kiss her delectable neck is so strong he pulls down the collar of her dress. He finds a little mole there, against her pale skin—the one he wanted to kiss for longer than it is appropriate to admit—he licks it, and the noise he gets in response is so delicious he does it again.

“Jon…” She breathes, “Wait. Stop.” He does, at once. “I never… not with someone I…”

Of course. He was so _stupid_. He should have known, should have been more careful with her, taken things slower.

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I would never do that you.”

“I know. It’s why I trust you. Only you.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “I just want… in case you—” her eyes snap shut, as if something painful just came to her.

“Sansa. Talk to me, love.” He urges, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

She swallows, gathering strength. “In case you don’t come back. I want to know what it’s like. To feel… _good._ ”

Jon smiles, completely infatuated. “I can do that.” He promises. “Do you trust me?”

She opens her eyes, fixing him with a curious stare. “You know I do.”

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like.”

Jon holds her chin to him, kissing her slowly and gently. He lets Sansa decide when it is time to deepen the kiss, and she does, opening her mouth to welcome him. He brings her up to a sitting position on top of the table, fitting himself between her legs.

“All right?” He asks.

She nods.

They go back to kissing, and when Sansa’s breath quickens again, Jon starts caressing her thigh. She doesn’t protest when his hand goes higher and higher, in fact, she just kisses him harder. Slowly, Jon uses his other hand to lift her skirts. His fingers trace the side of her calf, up until her knee. He lets it rest there, at the beginning of her thigh, and kneads the soft skin he finds. She sighs into his mouth.

Jon pulls back, staring into her blue eyes.

“Still with me?”

“Yes,” comes her breathy response.

As his hand continues its path, he starts to kiss every part of her face he can reach. Her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her jaw, her chin, her nose, until her lips call to him again, and he cannot resist them.

When his fingers finally reach the silk between her legs, he finds it damp and hot— _paradise,_ he thinks. Jon teases her through the fabric, drawing circles and figure eights that draw out the softest of whimpers from Sansa. Between two of them, she stops their kissing to whisper:

“Touch me, Jon.”

She did not have to ask him twice.

Jon puts his hand inside her undergarments, and finally gets to that magical place; he cannot keep in a moan of his own. She’s smooth and slick, ready for his touch, and when he slides his fingers up and presses on her little bundle of nerves, Sansa gasps in surprise.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes…yes.” She moans.

“How about this?” He asks, pushing a knuckle inside her.

“ _Oh._ Yes.” Her grip on his arm tightens.

“More?” His finger goes deeper.

“ _Uh-huh_.” She nods frantically.

He pushes in a second one, curling them inside her walls.

“ _Gods._ Do that again,” she begs. Jon obeys.

While he keeps the motion going with his two fingers, slowly building his pace, his thumb comes up to tease her clit again. Sansa _keens._

“Jon…so good…”

“I know, sweetheart.” He kisses her forehead, then rests his own against hers. “You’re so beautiful.”

His fingers speed up, chasing her bliss. Jon _needs_ it, like he needs to breathe—needs to see her face when she comes apart; needs to know if she’ll call out his name, or scream, or just open her mouth without making a single sound. He spells out his name with his thumb, and then—

It happened.

Any prediction, dream, or fantasy couldn’t have lived up to what he witnessed in that moment.

Sansa’s eyes close. Her mouth opens in a perfect ‘O’. Her cheeks are a dark shade of pink. Her chest heaves against the tightness of her dress. Her cunt tightens against his fingers, pulling him in, in, _in_. Her long red hair sticks to the back of her neck with sweat. And a sweet, high-pitched sound comes out, that sounds faintly like his name, though it could be a prayer, a curse, a song…

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Until her eyes open, looking like a summer sea, and she pulls him in her tide and kisses his lips.

 


End file.
